


Hotel California

by chilope



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gay Stuff, I have no idea what I'm doing, M/M, Modern AU, Rating will change next chapter, famous Wash AU, more characters will be introduced, oh shit right hold on, past Washington/Maine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:58:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chilope/pseuds/chilope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash and Tucker are both struggling with personal losses, and neither feels particularly ready to talk about it. The sex keeps their minds off things for awhile, but eventually shit has to get real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I have no idea what I'm doing. This is like... The introductory chapter so no sex? So if that's what you're here for I apologize. I'd love comments and suggestions cuz I've never written one of these before. I'll try to get the next chapter out soon, in case that tickles your fancy. Also thanks for reading.

It was 2:37 pm on a Thursday and Wash wanted to go home. A starry eyed teenage girl stood in front of him, saying something very fast and smiling incessantly. Wash did not hear what she was saying, but now she was handing him a piece of paper with a picture of his face on it. He smiled at her, signed the picture, handed it back, then he posed for a selfie while she leaned across the table. “Enjoy the rest of the con!” he said automatically.

His eyes focused briefly while the next starry eyed teenage girl walked up to the table. This one was wearing a shirt with his face on it. “I just wanted to say that you’re my hero!” she said it in a rush, breathless. Wash knew that she had been practicing that line all morning and afternoon, as she had waited in line to meet him. He smiled, and his cheek twitched a bit. She did not appear to notice, having been too busy pulling out her phone for a selfie. Behind her, hundreds of excited, breathless, sweaty fans waited for a chance to meet him. Wash wanted to take a nap.

He glanced at his watch, the digital face telling him that it was now 2:39 pm. “Just twenty more minutes,” said a voice to his left. York was watching him, a movie-star smile masking his worried expression. In front of them, a boy wearing a perfect replica of Wash’s freelancer armor tripped and fell flat on his face. York made to stand up, but the volunteer assistant assigned by the con pushed him back down, shaking her head. Wash did not react. Two security guards helped him to his feet, and he limped slowly toward the table.

Wash and York smiled, York somewhat more convincingly. “I just really wanted to say you two are my heroes I’ve seen _Project Freelancer_ like a thousand times it’s my favorite movie I watch it all the time I made this armor myself do you like it it took about a month but I wanted it to be perfect you know and I was hoping you would sign it!” He held out his arm, covered in painted Styrofoam. Wash stared at the large crack that had appeared across the chest piece when the boy fell. York leaned over, scribbling his messy signature across the arm.

“You did an amazing job, it’s almost a perfect recreation!” York was smiling. He had written “ _To a true galactic hero! Stay awesome, York_ ” on the inside of the kids arm. Wash quickly printed “ _Wash_.”

“Could I uh… Get a picture maybe?” he asked, his voice cracking halfway through the question.

“Absolutely!” York said, pulling Wash up by the arm and leaning them both over the table while the make-believe freelancer turned around with his phone held up. Wash contorted his face into the general shape of a smile. York beamed.

Wash sat down, taking another forlorn glance at his watch. 2:46.

The minutes were creaking by and then line never got any shorter.

Behind Wash, someone who wasn’t him wore his armor and posed with a gun next to someone who looked like York but wasn’t. They stood, suspended in a photoshop world, in front a CG spaceship.

Wash was just beginning to consider leaving, regardless of the time, when the volunteer assistant held up her hands and addressed the crowd. “Alright guys, it’s 3:00! David Washington and James York will be back here tomorrow at 1:00 pm to continue signing! Please clear the floor while we bring in the next guests!”

Groans and grumbles issued from the gathered crowd as the fans moved slowly away from the signing booth. Wash stood quickly and attempted to walk in the direction of the exit, but was stopped by the volunteer assistant. “You need to wait Mr. Washington, you have to have security with you at all times.”

“Listen I just want to go back to my hotel, okay? I’m tired. Please.” The assistant was impassive. “I’m sorry but you’ll have to wait,” she said.

York clapped Wash on the shoulder. “Come on buddy, it won’t be too much longer and then you can go be a sad, lonely recluse in your room for the rest of the night.” Wash narrowed his eyes at him.  “Oh come on,” York said imploringly. “It’s not good for me to be the fun one. You’re supposed to be the fun one. I’m supposed to be the mature, responsible one.”

“We’re not a boy band,” Wash retorted. Frankly, he wasn’t in the mood. Then again, he never seemed to be in the mood anymore.

York closed his eyes and sighed. “Look. I know this has been hard for you but at some point you’re going to have to get over it. You can’t keep moping forever.”

“It’s been like a week!” Wash was bubbling with frustration. Why couldn’t anyone just let him be sad for a while? The volunteer assistant interrupted their conversation to gesture toward four security guards who were waiting to accompany them to their car. Today they could retreat to the peace and sanctuary of their 5-star hotel for the afternoon. Tomorrow, there would be panels. Wash hurried away, not wanting to spend any more time in the hot confines of the convention floor. York walked leisurely behind him, the security guards unsure whether they should try to catch up with Wash or stay behind with York.

* * *

 

Wash did not go to any exciting parties. He did not get drunk with the other actors who had been hosted by the convention, nor did he eat fancy finger food with the producers who hadn’t bothered to step foot on the convention floor. Instead, he had laid on his hotel bed, wearing nothing but his boxers, and watched reruns of old sitcoms.

York had left seven messages. The first three were spaced about 45 minutes apart, and provided a relatively accurate portrayal of York’s steadily increasing drunkenness. The fourth came at about 11:00 pm and contained mostly garbled yelling. The last three, which came at 1:00 am, 1:30 am, and 1:45 am, consisted of York crying about Carolina, being angry at Wash for leaving him alone, and then crying about Carolina again, respectively.

York did not normally cry about Carolina, and under any other circumstances Wash would not have ignored it. But as it was, he had not been in the mood to listen to someone else complain about their unrequited love.

Now he was sitting at a table on a stage with a microphone six inches from his face. Beyond the haze of the stage lights was roughly five hundred people. Leonard Church’s voice drifted into his head from the other end of the table, “…Wash was really the life of the crew, he kept everyone up and on their toes. Let me ya, when you’re out in the cold at five o’clock in the morning with nothing on but a leotard, you wanna have a guy like Wash around.” The crowd laughed, though Wash couldn’t quite figure out why. He gazed toward the back of the room, eyes unfocused, before realizing that everyone had been waiting for him to respond. He didn’t bother.

York leaned into his microphone and started telling a story. It was probably a funny story, given that the audience kept laughing, but Wash wasn’t quite paying attention.

And then, much too soon, they were back at the signing booth. Wash smiled automatically and posed for pictures and signed his name onto t-shirts and backpacks and DVD covers and posters. He signed a scale wood carving of his helmet. He thanked five hundred fans for coming to see him.

A dark hand placed the box cover of _Project Dicklancer_ on the table in front of Wash. He stared at it, completely lost, and then looked up the fan, who wore a lopsided smirk. York leaned over to look at the DVD and laughed when he realized what it was. “I can’t believe there’s already a porn version,” he said.

The fan snorted. “Are you kidding? There was a porn version before the actual movie came out.” York laughed again, and signed the DVD where his porn double was posing with a gun between his legs. Wash signed it near the top, but couldn’t help but notice his double being held from behind by the mostly-naked double of Leonard Church. So it was _that_ kind of porn…

As Wash slid the DVD back across the table, the stranger leaned over and took his hand, writing _Hilton 2216_ on the back of it. Then he winked at Wash and sauntered off, leaving the DVD on the table. Wash immediately tried to rub the ink away, but it wouldn’t budge. York glanced over at it and laughed again. “Never seen that one before,” he said.

The rest of the signing was uneventful, and Wash wished he was anywhere else. Three o’clock came and went and then he was at a panel. Fans asked him questions and he gave short answers. York told him to smile more. He tried harder at the next panel, but it didn’t help the hanging silences. The day was slow and blurry and he daydreamed of his hotel bed and of silences that weren’t filled with the expectations of hundreds of people.

“There’s supposed to be a pretty big rager tonight,” York informed Wash as they stood to leave the final panel of the day. “Everyone’ll be there. You should try to come, it might cheer you up to get your mind off things for a while.” York was quite a bit taller than Wash, and looked down on him easily. That, combined with his utterly patronizing expression, made Wash want to punch him in the face.

“Yeah I’m not really feeling it tonight,” Wash said, turning to walk off stage. York sighed audibly and then turned, grinning, to the small crowd that had amassed at the front, wanting signatures and pictures and handshakes.

Wash slipped into his hotel room like a cold bath, refreshing and startling after the noise of the convention. He closed all the curtains and took his clothes off, slipping into the perfectly made bed and turning on the T.V. It was only 8:00 but Wash was exhausted. He stared at the face of a conventionally attractive male actor, one he had not worked with or even heard of before. There were too many actors these days. He flipped to a new channel. This time a girl with dark hair tried to sell him shampoo. Another channel, this time a small woman with a squeaky voice and a laugh track. Next channel-

Wash’s heart stopped briefly as the camera moved between headshots of a tall, dark woman and her large, muscular love interest. Wash had not seen this movie before. His hand tightened around the remote. Maine had not wanted him to see this movie. He had thought that the director made him look stupid on purpose, giving him ridiculous lines and cutting all the scenes where his mouth hadn’t been hanging open. Wash tucked his knees up to his chest, the blanket falling slipping halfway down his legs.

Maine was kissing the girl now. “It was gross,” Maine had said. “I hate kissing girls.” Wash turned the T.V. off, feeling vaguely nauseous, and headed to the bathroom to shower.

He let the water run over his body, feeling the accumulated grime of a convention wash off his limbs. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fu-u-u-uck.” He made to start washing his arms and noticed the now blurred _Hilton 2216_ on the back of his hand. The steam from the water made the world feel fuzzy and distant. “Fuck Maine,” he whispered, barely audible, and then, louder, “Fu-u-u-uck Maine!” The water stopped and he toweled off quickly, then threw on a pair of jeans, an old t-shirt, and a baseball cap. The Hilton was just next door. He stormed out of his hotel room, barely remembering to grab his keys and wallet.

The Hilton was not as nice as his hotel, but Wash was thankful that the doorman didn’t notice him. He breathed a sigh of a relief as the elevator opened onto the empty twenty-second floor before walking the wrong way down the hall. Finding room 2216 took a bit of work, and when he did find it Wash realized that his hands were shaking. Suddenly the world didn’t feel fuzzy anymore. Instead it felt sharp and intense and real. He closed his eyes. There was the sound of knocking, and he opened his eyes again, surprised to see that it was his knuckle tapping on the door.

Much too soon and simultaneously way too late, the door opened.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex.

He was standing in the doorway wearing pajama bottoms and nothing else and he looked just as surprised as Wash felt. The shock, however, quickly faded back into the lopsided smirk that Wash remembered from the signing. He held the door open wider and stepped to the side, motioning for Wash to come in. 

The inside of the room was messy and dark. It was lit by a single lamp sitting next to the only bed, and there were clothes laying on every visible surface, mostly aqua colored t-shirts and hoodies. Wash stood near the T.V. with his hands in his pockets, staring at the bed, his stomaching twisting and his head spinning uncomfortably. He heard the door shut and lock behind him, and then the other man sat heavily on the end of the unmade bed. He was smiling, but Wash was starting to see that it was forced. 

“I’m Tucker, by the way,” the man said, holding out his hand for Wash to shake. 

“David Washington,” Wash replied, shaking his hand. 

Tucker laughed. “Yeah, dude, I know who you are.”

Wash looked down at his feet, trying very hard to stop shaking. He took his hands out of his pockets and ran them through his hair, still not looking up. He glanced quickly at Tucker, trying to decide what exactly it was that he was here for. And then he decided. 

He covered the three feet separating him and Tucker in less than a second and put his hands on either side of the other man’s face, kissing him hard. Tucker paused for a moment, caught entirely off guard, and then wrapped his arms around Wash’s back, pulling him closer. They laid down and stopped kissing long enough for Tucker to pull Wash’s shirt off and throw it on the floor. Wash noted that he tasted a lot like pumpkin spice and he smelled like cheap cologne. He covered the dark skin in kisses, softly at first, and then with teeth. 

Tucker flinched into it, moaning loudly and responding in kind. He was small and flexible and he held tightly to Wash’s arms, and then to his shoulders, and then to his neck. Wash was surprised by how much he enjoyed it. He started to pull down the green plaid pajamas that were suddenly feeling very inconvenient, and then there was nothing between them but very hot skin. 

Wash looked down at Tucker laying underneath him, both of them breathing hard, and then pinned Tucker’s arms to the bed. He felt a hot surge of anger, of betrayal, and held Tucker down tighter. The smaller man was smiling, egging him on with his smirk and his almost inaudible whimpers. Wash glared, giving into the anger for the first time since Maine left, and reached a hand toward Tuckers mouth. He reached a finger inside and pulled it open. Tucker smiled more, letting himself be manipulated by Wash. His mouth was hot and wet and Wash could feel himself losing control. He moved forward on top on Tucker until he could fit his extremely erect dick inside of Tuckers mouth. 

Wash ran his hands through Tuckers thick hair, gripping it hard and holding his head in place. Tucker held Wash by the thighs, his tongue running along Wash’s shaft. Wash threw his head back and moaned loudly. He gritted his teeth, feeling both livid and extremely satisfied. Tucker pulled back, pushing Wash down toward his legs while he rifled through the drawer of the nightstand in search of lube. Wash gripped the sheets impatiently, and then bent over to put his mouth around Tucker’s considerable erection. 

Tucker groaned and tensed and then emerged from the drawer with a bottle. Wash took it and prepared Tucker in a hurried and rough manner, making him quiver uncomfortably before forcing himself inside, hard. Tucker let out a painful moan and arched his back, but continued to rock his hips into Wash, who thrusted with an abrasive but even rhythm. Wash finished with a shaky, gasping motion into Tucker and then leaned over him, panting. Tucker relaxed visibly and sank further into the bed while Wash kissed his knee, and then moved along his leg to his inner thigh, where he resumed sucking Tucker off. 

The sheets twisted and tensed as Tucker writhed gently before finishing in Wash’s mouth. They both smiled through their breathless panting, and then Wash moved to lay next to Tucker and kissed him, more gently this time. 

\----------------

Wash woke up the next morning feeling drained and a little sore, but for the first time in a while the sunshine coming in through the window filled him with a sense of relative peace. And then he looked at his watch, which read 11:17, and the inner peace was exchanged for pure, unadulterated panic. His had already missed a panel and was 17 minutes late for another one. He untangled himself from the dark arms and legs that he had slept under and began searching desperately for his underwear. 

Tucker sat up in bed, groggy and unfocused. “What are you doing? Come cuddle me.”

Pulling his underwear on backwards, Wash shot back, “I can’t, I’m already so fucking late oh my god York is going to kill me…” He trailed off while trying to sort through the piles of clothes for his shirt and pants. 

“You should probably borrow one of my shirts,” Tucker said, laying back down and covering his face with the blanket. “People will notice if you wear the same shirt twice. 

He was probably right, Wash knew, but Tucker was considerably smaller than him. “Do you have anything that would even fit me?” 

Tucker grunted from under the blanket, and then peaked his head out with a sigh. “Yeah. I do.” He pointed toward his suitcase, which was sitting open on the armchair in the corner. “They’ll probably fit you.” 

The suitcase was mostly empty except for a single pair of boxers and two light blue shirts. Wash pulled out the top one, a normal v-neck, and slipped it on. It was a size or two too big for him, and definitely way too big for Tucker. Wash seriously doubted Tucker had ever worn it, but even so, it had definitely been worn before. “Thanks,” Wash said, resuming his search for his pants. Tucker grunted in response. He was back under the covers, seeming thoroughly morose. 

Wash found his pants and hurriedly tied his shoes. It was already 11:30 and the walk to the hall was at least ten minutes. He started walking toward the door and then paused, grabbing the notepad and pen that were sitting on the desk. He scribbled his number quickly and replaced the notepad. Tucker had started snoring. Wash smiled as he walked out the door and half-jogged to the convention hall. 

\--------------------

When Wash walked on stage, the panel had already entered the Q&A phase. He waved sheepishly as the crowd cheered and applauded. He could feel York glaring at him as he sat down but refused to look at his face. When a fan asked him why he was late, he smiled and said he had slept through his alarm. York laughed along with the crowd, but it was obvious to Wash that it was fake. 

While the director was answering a question, York covered his microphone and leaned toward Wash. “Where the hell were you this morning? I called you half a dozen times! Lena was losing her damn mind.” York looked genuinely concerned and equally furious. 

Wash reached into his pocket and found his phone, which had apparently been set on silent all night. He had 28 missed calls and 46 new messages. He looked up at York and shrugged apologetically. York did not appear placated, but he uncovered his microphone and turned back to the panel. Wash looked back down at his phone to check a few of the messages. Fourteen of them were from York, all of which consisted of “where the hell are you” at increasing intensity over time. The rest were from his assistant and his manager, as well as a few other coordinators and people associated with the event. 

There was also a message from an unknown number that had arrived five minutes ago. Wash opened it and read “Heeeeeey sexy, had fun suckin that MAD D last night ~~~C===B HMU next time u dtf baaaaaabe ;) ;) ;)”

Wash blushed bright red and then put his phone away, at which point he became uncomfortably aware of the fact that York was staring right at him. Wash closed his eyes and willed himself to chill out but the lights were making him sweat and he was starting to get a headache. When the panel finally ended, he and York descended the stage together, York still staring at him. Everyone who had called Wash this morning converged on him at once, demanding to know where he had been and if he was okay. York pushed them away and dragged Wash into a relatively secluded corner. 

“So.” York said. 

Wash nodded. “So.”

“Is that a new shirt?” York asked, eyeing Wash’s shirt that was clearly too big. It was at this exact moment that Wash remembered he had changed before going to the Hilton, and that if he had put on his old shirt no one would have noticed because he hadn’t worn it to the con. He closed his eyes, unable to process how badly this morning had gone. “You didn’t miss your alarm this morning,” York continued, as if he hadn’t just asked a question. “The hotel called you ten times. I went to your room before I left. You weren’t there.” York’s tone was less accusatory now. Wash opened his eyes and York was smiling. “Please tell me I’m right,” he said. 

“Um. Yeah. I… I sort of met someone.” Wash looked down at his feet and tried not to make any kind of facial expression. “And apparently my phone was on silent so I didn’t hear anyone calling me. I’m really fucking sorry, dude.” 

York smiled more widely. “Who was it? Please tell me it wasn’t Wyoming. I would literally die if you fucked Wyoming.” Wash laughed and shook his head. “Was it a chick? Oh my god was it South?” Wash cocked an eyebrow at him, and he retracted. “No you’re right, she would never bang a dude.” York’s eyes lit up and he leaned back. “Was it that _Project Dicklancer_ guy?” His tone was joking but Wash couldn’t stop himself from blushing slightly. York’s smile disappeared. “Oh my god,” he said. “Oh my god. You banged the Dicklancer.”

Wash crossed his arms defiantly. “His name is Tucker, actually. And it was awesome.” 

York laughed again. “Hey man, whatever floats your boat. _Ba-a-a-a-abe_.” Wash cringed at the reference, and steeled himself for the next three hours he would be spending with York.


End file.
